The Discrepancy Between

to run the risk of being

deci

mat

ed

by the tip of your finger

means more

to

me

than all the sanctuary

i could find

within

another's

gaze.

some mouths are better left shut

one loses the right to lament
the daily ongoings of life
and the bigger happenings of existence
if that same one makes no attempt
at grasping the reins or wheel
or steering-device of his or her
metaphorical vehicle
in order to find that which will truly
bring
happiness.

This is the Only Escape

oblivious.

a screaming siren adjacent to ear

would barely grasp my attention.

but even i can see the unadulterated beauty

which pulls like magnets to a compass

in you.

there are others far more perceptive,

with bright eyes full of wonder,

drinking in all they could possibly discover.

you cannot stay blind

forever.

The Human Race of Nesting Dolls

We are hauntingly capable of so many things.

Regeneration, compassion, kindness, love, healing, invention, discovery.

Anger, hatred, murder, apathy, disdain, selfishness, greed, pride.

Constantly grappling over Jekyll and Hyde. Can they co-exist in some twisted form of harmony? Or will anger always try to kidnap happiness, covering its head in a burlap sack? Will hatred always try to deceive and turn compassion, willing it to ignore someone in need?

It is no wonder we spend our lives searching, wandering, looking for some semblance of peace.

We are but a collective, chaotic chorus of screaming demands, each trying to be heard above all the rest, each trying to reign supreme.

His Last(?) Train Ride

the fluorescent yellow combined

with the constant swaying of the tracks

make it difficult to memorize

anything,

let alone decipher each

verticalhorizontaldiagonal line

that comes together to create

something called

"a sentence."

but he's run out of time.

it is his final journey

in this aluminum-and-steel sarcophagus.

success is promising,

failure is threatening.

he doesn't have room

for ambiguity.

words slither out of his lips

like a letterchain-snake,

falling silently to the muddied

ground, whooshing to

nothing more

than a whisper

as they collide.

the voice of a god beckons

through the wordgrater o'erhead.

packed and put away,

he commends himself,

tests himself,

prepares himself,

stands,

and exits.

The Girdle of History

the chattering of obedient silverware

married with the hushed and quiet

fadings of laughter and lifesharings

come scampering down this

horrendously-pattered carpet,

speeding through treads created by

the boots of workers

(suspiciously like servants)

and the heels of high-brow ladies who are

wrapped up in the furs of once-alive creatures.

the comings and goings of luggage carts

and thousands of stories

are embedded into each frayed thread

(well, the reds and beiges, at least,

but perhaps not the sea-foam).

the cheap perfume aroma of far-off edibles

invade each nostril,

masking the faint odor of history

until i cannot remember who was here last

and i am once again distracted by a

thunderous commotion,

trailing behind its owner like a curious puppy on a leash.

the flesh-colored wallpaper is encrusted with

songs and tunes from who-knows-when,

like a meticulously baked pie,

drowned by the clamor of present patrons.

how i wish i could breach every layer and

play each soundtrack against the

delicate needle of a phonograph.

the padded thud of a boot against the carpet

forces images of tasseled dresses and feather boas

from the depths of my cluttered crown,

reminding me that we will all someday be

the soundwaves captured in these walls,

waiting for the day someone will set us free.

Baking a Nail File Into a Contraband Cake

somewhere between

gallant and pusillanimous

lies a field

which stretches from

here to pluto,

unfathomably gargantuan

and irrefutably macabre.

it bewitches and it devours.

there was a time prior

to its contemptuous existence

in which lovers could

lay contentedly within their

respective paramour's embrace,

the most pressing matters

a fracas over

a cloud's perceived visage.

but as the ozone layer inflated(or

perhaps one could argue

its deflation),this obverse

inflated,

forever hungering for

the bravery of a

suitor's

soul.

escape. flee.

love cannot be savored

if

one is bound

by fear.

A Lesson on How to Make the Mind Go Mad

it will not leave.

it burrows and burrows

inside of

this dilapidated haunt,

nestling so comfortably

in the depths of my

ventricles and atriums,

reinventing itself in such

clever disguises

as it travels about the bloodstream,

finding new habitats

which it likes to call

home.

how quietly it waits.

how patiently it breathes,

methodically outstretching a hand

or some disfigured protuberance,

scarcely making contact

with its surroundings,

sending my synapses into

a frenzy.

my god,

how your very skin enraptures me

with its heady bouquet.

one taste awakens this

dark, ugly thing

from its false hibernation

as i come to

understand

that with all of my strength

and all of my might,

i must conquer this

daemon,

while still trying to comprehend

and trying to believe in

how you have

chosen

to stay.

Symbiosis of the Homo Sapien

someday,

when science allows it,

i will peel my skin

from my bones,

and my freed cage

will wander

from body to body,

zipping up a

different

fleshoodie

every single day

just to say,

after it has found its

way back to its

original casing,

"i've been a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

of all different sizes

and all shades of human.

there were women

and men

and some children,

when i could manage

to fit.

they were black,

they were white,

they were asian,

they were hispanic,

they were mutts.

they had congestive heart failure,

they had diabetes,

they had cancer,

they had restless leg syndrome.

they hated

and they loved

and they mourned.

but now that i've been

a hundred

different

people from a hundred

walks of life,

i've come to realize:

we

are all

the same."

A Poem in Four Acts

i.

goodmorningyou, hesitant to

greet(how you put up a fight)the

waking world,

tangled in cotton protectors,

strands everywhichway,

blockading those pools i adore,

with vocal chords only

capable

of quiet(content)eruptions;

ii.

to goodafternoonyou, adventurous

and bursting through the

metaphoric(literal)walls,

absorbing the seasonal sun

and passing breeze,

toes wriggling with(in) their

unwelcome confines,

dashing forward

at the speed of something in

be

tween

lightandsound;

iii.

to goodnightyou, connecting

with the

out-there-world before

wrapping me up in everything you

are,

heating my skin with your skin(i've

good circulation),and

mingling my breath with your

breath,

until we come together in

ways only we can(only you,only me),

hesitant to leave each other's

head(how we put up a fight),as

we tangle ourselves in cotton protectors

and each other,

our vocal cho(harmonious)rds only

capable of exhausted(arduous)eruptions;

iv.

to everyyou that i can manage

to find,

and how i adore

eachandeveryone

down to the most miniscule(microscopic)cell

in this tired body

with all of my might.

She Was Like the Sun

the flower nods to the

illumination of the sun,

its head hanging low

with the weight of regret

that it could not bloom

fast enough, and its petals

could not be bright enough,

and it could not be vocal in its

gratitude for those nurturing rays

before the sun, falling into

its crimson slumber, closed her

eyes and fell asleep.

----------------------

I think the hiatus may be over.

I'll love and miss you forever, KG.

It Never Stood a Chance

a bucket with a pinhole
is destined to fail. but it
will try and try and try to
make you proud, to keep
you from regretting having
ever purchased it. after
all, how can you hold a
grudge against something
that knows no other
existence except one that
is flawed? please be forgiving,
won't you? it will never leave
you. it could never abandon
you. it will have no choice but
to become your closest
ally.

At the End of the World, You Are Alone With Yourself

if ever you are

worried

that life is something tempor(ary)al,

and that tightness in the chest

begins to settle in

when you stop to

think

of all you have to do,

rest assured that you have

had a gift(well spent)

that so many

will have abused and exploited,

who will pause before

their last heartbeat

and wonder why they had

wasted time as if it were air(though

even that is a rarity these days).

let the panic fade away

as the warmth seeps

into your veins,

sliding like lava through

your limbs,

knowing that you

were

loved.

I Would Live Underwater if I Could Only Manage to Survive

my body is like the sea,

undulating,

changing,

controlled by an invisible force that i must obey,

lest i cease to exist all together.

my soul is like the tide,

an oscillation between high and low,

between calm and tumultuous,

between black and blue,

constantly morphing

and constantly adapting.

my heart is like the gull,

perched upon these galloping waves.

it can sink and dive and break this

sometimes halcyon surface,

but it prefers to stay afloat,

letting the rises and falls lull it to security.

my life is like the oceans of this earth,

each body a different chapter,

each world a new beginning.

common threads run amongst them all,

as all things are connected, you see,

yet they are different all the same.

which chapter am i in?

which will i end up in next?

paddle, paddle,

and see what surprises await.

Catch Up

I have returned from Missouri, with daily entries still written, posted below. The trip was wonderful and the flights, both to and from, were quick and painless (I passed out while still on the runway).

11 august 2010

if i lived here,

i'd be home by now.

how we fight and kill

and slaughter to defend our

tiny, infinitesimal section of this

hardened rock.

from a mile above,

it all seems pretty folly,

realizing that what we own

is not what we are,

and all of these things

are anything

but

permanent.

but we continue to kill

and we continue to fight,

unwilling to let go of one of the

only things that makes us

feel like we're bigger than

mortal and more residual

than gods.

but we'll cease to exist.

we'll leave it all behind,

with only the dwindling and idling

memories we have spent a lifetime

creating

remaining.

---------------------------------------------------------

11 august 2010 (post 2)

home is a state of mind,

not a place.

i realized this long ago,

feeling at home in hotel rooms

that smelled faintly of smoke

from twenty years prior,

because my family was with me.

the section of the living room

rug where i always fell asleep

felt more like home than

my bed.

this place doesn't feel like home.

because it is missing you.

and, my darling,

you are light

and you are warmth.

you are home.

---------------------------------------------------------

12 august 2010

i wonder how it'd feel to

be suspended - in time, in space,

in life.

there are moments when

it is more than enticing,

when there wouldn't even be

an ounce of hesitation if i

would but be offered this chance.

then a part of me realizes

the downfall to this idea,

to this state of existence.

peace would be abundant,

i'm sure of it,

but so would apathy.

after all, how can one feel

anything when there is

no reason to feel?

never moving forward

and never moving back.

never moving anywhere.

purpose would be just a memory,

the kind that always lingers

in the back of the mind,

until it becomes the vague outline

of what once was.

perhaps this state of suspension

would be no good after all.

perhaps we have no choice

but to continue to move and

to continue to breathe and

to continue to die and be born.

always destined for heartache,

always destined for loss and grief,

always destined for love and

joy and celebration,

always destined for something.

---------------------------------------------------------

13 august 2010

every baby will grow up

someday.

everyone on this earth was once

microscopic, tucked away inside the

womb of some woman somewhere,

destined for what seemed an eternity

of captivity and hibernation(for what

could you really know of time?)

then, released into the world,

(hopefully with welcoming arms and

opened hearts)

breathed her first breath

of this newly discovered world.

then came a life summed up in a

series of moments:

the first day of school,

the first crush(that will break her heart;

it is inevitable),

the first failed test,

new schools,

new friends,

the first love(who, most likely, will be

suspiciously similar to that first crush

from so many years ago)

and so on, for what seems like forever,

until each moment becomes a memory,

until each memory becomes a story,

passed on and passed down,

until the cycle starts again.

---------------------------------------------------------

15 august 2010 (scribbled after a dream)

he stands in your front yard or when you least expect him. you shake your head and try to wake yourself because surely, this must be a dream. he tells you there is no point. he's real. he's there to stay, to guide you to all of the happiness that have you been seeking. but you must do what he says, this clairvoyant stranger. you tell him that you were going to see a friend and he politely responds that you are not. he explains that your friend is sleeping, having hurt his back, and you will see him tomorrow. instead, he sends you driving down long highways until you always crash, but manage to stay alive. he sends you to a film festival and tells you to buy a year-long membership (because apparently these things exist and you've got a lot to learn).

in the daylight, he looks old and frail. he carries an oxygen tank and his fine, white hair flutters with the lightest of breezes.

but he is still your sage. you must do as he tells you. he will make you a better person. a happier person. he will bring you to everything you want.

---------------------------------------------------------

16 august 2010

they say that distance

and abs(over-whelming)ence

makes the heart grow fonder.

i suppose that i must be extremely

fond of you(though i

did not need much encouragement

to be begin with).

this foreign bed

becomes vaster and more daunting

than the Sahara,

with even less inhabitants.

how i wander,

how i seek you out,

how every inch of me yearns for you.

but you are nowhere to be found

in this strange land.

you are eons away,

resting your head where mine should be,

curled amidst blankets and pillows

that should be my body.

but, my dear, my heart has grown

fonder(i thought it impossible),

suspending visions and memories of you

to keep it warm and keep it safe.

i do not worry, as i wander in

search of you.

i know i will find your arms again.

i know i will find you.

With My Head Against a Pillow, I Concoct the Strangest of Worlds

I had a dream the other night where I was in a strange house, though it seemed vaguely familiar, like there were pieces of it that made me think it was mine. All along this long, long hallway, there were ladders - and no ceilings. In order to progress down this hallway, and there was only one route, you had to climb up each ladder and then climb back down the other side. As I was waiting in line to do this, I was wondering what was taking people so long once they reached the top. After all, dream minutes are very important. Who knew how long it would be before I would wake up and leave this strange world?

My turn finally came. A well-placed foot was planted on each rung, up and up and up, until I reached the top of what seemed to be an impossibly tall ladder. Once I climbed the summit and went to maneuver over to the other side to begin my descent, I realized why people had stopped. Up at the top, you were faced with a wooden wall - like the bare panelling of a house without that insulation that looks suspiciously like cotton candy. Speckled on this wall were pictures - pictures of you, pictures of your loved ones, pictures of your friends.

Memories that you forgotten you had, buried deep in the lost abysses of your brain; memories that were your favorites from when you were small; memories that didn't seem much like memories at all at the time - you know, those moments when you are simply living your life, another day-to-day miracle, where nothing spectacular happens, but damn it, it's special because you're still breathing; memories of moments that had not happened yet. All of these things, captured in photographs of all sizes, some in black and white and some in color. And every time a new person climbed the ladder, these photos would change to reflect their memories.

I went to reach for one of these photographs, but it began to melt as soon as my skin made contact. Maybe I had gained some acidic skin? - after all, this was a dream. Anything was possible. But I realized that I hadn't undergone some nifty transformation and wouldn't become the next superhero (Venom Girl would have been my name, by the way).

I realized that I couldn't take these memories with me because I had to let them go.

This hallway would always be here, always here to house and protect the memories I had collected over time, but that's all they were. They were to stay, glued to this wall, for reminiscing purposes only. I couldn't live in them. I couldn't pretend I was at that moment in time again. They had happened, and what wonderful memories they were. But that's all they were: memories.

After this realization, I sadly climbed my way back down this first ladder, then began to wait in line for the next. After a few moments of thinking, however, I realized that I didn't need to see all these photographs again. I needed to get out of this hallway and into my life. I somehow wriggled my way between the walls of the hallway and these abnormally tall ladders and to the front door, after the last ladder. It was beautiful outside.

I awoke as I opened the door. I had returned back to my life, hoping to see a few added photographs the next time I visited that strange, strange house.

We Have Lost the Earth

As I drive down these populated roads, and as these colorful dwellings blur past the periphery of my vision, I imagine them gone. I imagine what it must have been like in this place, on this road, when it was nothing more than earth. I imagine what it was like for the first inhabitants to call that spot, and that spot, and that spot home. I imagine horses' hooves trotting down dirty paths, drowned out by the sound of wheels clunking over pebbles and rocks, buried in the terrain. I imagine lovers walking down this path, arm in arm, perhaps a parasol resting atop her delicately hidden shoulder. I imagine life before there was life and whether or not anyone could have imagined what it would be like now.

And then the horrendous sound of a car's outcry steals me back from these halcyon thoughts. I realize I am passing by another monstrosity of a "home," if one could even call it that; after all, how can it be a home when there is more dry wall and cement than people?; than love? I realize that I am passing by another temporal space in which another person will live out his life, having followed in the footsteps of who came before, and having laid down the path for who will come to follow. And then I realize that this is my street, and signaling to the cars around me, I continue my own journey home.

Inspiration Comes From Everywhere

it weakens me.

joints, constructed to

keep me

afloat in this

undertoe air,

collapse as i am brought to

the

ground.

knees meet the laminate

with a quiet kiss,

trails of salt

and water

and salty water

journey down my

s

p

i

n

e.

a promise(a suggestion)

breathed in between

contact.

kept.

delivered.

As I Hold "Child Life," by J.G. Whittier

gnarled and calloused hands,

worn by years of life

and picking up his children,

touch these pages

as though they were as delicate

as the petals of a rose.

they gently skate across those

letters, so carefully pressed

onto that once-was tree,

each of them congealing

into memories

that are faint, fading like

the daylight of the setting sun.

he takes a pen to

a page,

a reminder to himself

that there is something special,

an inadvertent

reminder to the person after him

that he was once alive

and he once loved

and felt

and cried

as i do now,

touching these pages

as the delicate petals

of a rose.

Reincarnation Haunts

i believe that

these nighttime hallucinations

are

the memories of a lifetime

once lived.

there is proof.

there are seas of faces

which are known to me,

endeared to me,

loved by me

in this strange, strange

world

that i do

not

recognize(or remember)

upon waking,

yet i am not alarmed

at their existences.

there are places i have never seen

that may have never been

that may never be,

yet i call them home.

fragments of lives

i've long forgotten

or lives that have

yet to pass,

coming alive

and dancing

breathing

being

while

i am

asleep.